


Beer and No Clothing in Las Vegas

by Hanako_Cinnamon



Series: New Boots and Contracts [2]
Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Anal Sex, Choking, Established Stanchez, F/M, I did research again, I mean they're working you up to it, Las Vegas, Light BDSM, M/M, Oral Sex, Threesome - F/M/M, Underage Drinking, Vaginal Sex, a little bit of, and then promptly mucked about with the timeline, but not so much as you'd notice, but you're old enough to vote don't worry, consistent tenses we don't need no stinkin' consistent tenses, no betas we die like men, not much though, questionable life choices, say mid-30's and mid-40's respectively, stanchez, the 80's, the booze is the only thing you're underage for, younger Stan and Rick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 12:01:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20620682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hanako_Cinnamon/pseuds/Hanako_Cinnamon
Summary: Your encounter with Stan and Rick left you disillusioned with your available dating pool. Luckily, they seemed to like you too, so onward you go towards another weekend of questionable life choices!





	Beer and No Clothing in Las Vegas

**Author's Note:**

> Soooooo I had some more ideas, and here we are. I hope it's okay. The title was originally just a joke placeholder but then I ended up liking it. It's not required that you read Gimme Gimme Gimme before this one, but there are few references here and there, plus it's more of this, which I assume you might like since you're here.
> 
> Everything I know about casino gaming I learned from Harry Anderson, gods rest his soul. "Games You Can't Lose" is a hell of a fun book, and I encourage you to read it if you get the chance. Any mistakes are my own. 
> 
> I suppose while I wrote I should have listened to, I dunno, 60's crooners or something, considering the setting, but instead I listened to synthwave and a metric ton of the blues. I don't know if that's relevant to anything, but the relationship between music and writing is always fascinating to me. 
> 
> A friendly reminder - comments are like kalaxian crystals for writers, except the high lasts way longer. Hook up all your favorite writers with some today!

Spring semester ended, summer has been and gone, and you’re back at your medium-sized university again, juggling classes and assignments with remembering to eat and occasionally see the sunlight and other human beings outside of classrooms, like the majority of your fellow students. Your trip to the big city is now a fond memory, if by “fond” you mean “it was incredible until they emptied your wallet” and by “memory” one means “fully three-quarters of your vibe vault these days.” 

It’s been a while since you’ve taken anyone to bed; your concerns about finding your peers dull were realized pretty fully when you came back to campus and you had a few dates with other students. It’s not like you didn’t try to be selective, but even the relatively interesting ones were subsequently disappointing as soon as the door shut behind you both. It’s amazing to you how self-centered the average College Joe is; to paraphrase a commedienne, their version of foreplay was a boob grab and a wet neck, and you’re no longer ignorant enough to consider that acceptable. The ones that complain about the condom you kick out, but still, a depressing proportion of the rest go straight to a short stretch of full-bore thrusting and then (perhaps) an inquiry to whether you came before they roll out of bed and head out in confusion when you answer in the negative. You’re aware it’s society’s fault, but none of them have taken direction well so far and you’re not interested starting a revolution, at least not while you’re pulling so many credits, so by the end of September you’ve given up and spend your leisure time with your toys when you need to blow off some steam. It’s just easier. 

One day follows the next and finally it’s the Friday after midterms and you’ve tossed your backpack under the kitchen table so you don’t have to look at it for a while. You’re planning on a long weekend with nothing to do but loaf and nap and read and maybe go out a couple of times with your friends, but an unexpected knock on the door brings you out of that pleasant reverie before you can even open the book you’ve chosen to start. 

You look up when you open the door, and then up further, because it’s Rick (what the actual unholy fuck?) and he’s still ridiculously tall. He’s got a cigarette dangling from his lower lip and he’s wearing slightly more casual clothes than the last time you saw him (not that he was wearing anything the last time you saw him except your marks on his back, your libido is quick to remind you) and as you stare in shock he moves from casually leaning on your doorframe to strolling through the doorway and into your apartment, halting in the middle of your living/kitchen/dining area and surveying it with enough scrutiny to pass as a prospective buyer. 

“Pretty small, “ he pronounces, “And that rug is ugly.” 

Your mouth opens and closes a couple of times and you shut the door instead of speaking. You’re not sure what’s going to come out when you do but you’re pretty sure that whatever it is, you don’t want your neighbors to hear. 

“Hello to you, too, “ you finally manage in a growl, and Rick shrugs, still looking at your rug. 

“Yeah. Long time no see, or whatever. Did you- did you pay for this?” 

“It came with the- look, how the hell did you find me?”

"I put a tracker on your bracelet, " he shrugged again, "In case you were fun enough that we wanted another go. You should seriously talk to your landlord about updating-"

"You _ what _?"

"Put a tracker on you, " he repeated slowly, as though you were deaf or an idiot, "It's a good thing you're a decent lay, because clearly you're not at all quick on the uptake-"

"I got it the first time, “ you snap, “I just can't believe you put a _ tracker _ on me like I was some kind of wild animal you wanted to study-"

“Yeah, yeah, I went all Marlon Perkins on you, so what? Would you have told us your home address?”

“Yes, probably, before I found out _ you stole my money _-”

"Moving on, " Rick said airily, waving one hand dismissively in a way that makes you want to smack him, and not in a fun way, “I’m here now. And I’ve convinced Stan it’s time for another vacation, and I wanted to get him something nice that I know he’d enjoy, so go and pack some things and we’ll get going.”

“You’re assuming a lot, “ you say.

"Oh please, " Rick snorted, "We were the best thing that ever happened in your pointless little existence."

“You _ robbed _ me.” You’re trying for outrage, you really are, but it flattens against Rick’s maddening indifference. 

"Yeah, well, that's our modus operandi. We give a good time and then take a tip. I thought he was going soft when he gave you cab fare but it turns out he just likes you."

"And what about you?"

Rick shrugged. "He likes you, " he repeats.

You swear there’s something else there, under his flippant tone, but the brief amount of time you’ve spent with Rick has left you with the impression that he doesn’t let anything of himself out voluntarily. 

"I don't know about this, " you say, even though your libido has already pretty much elbow-dropped the part of you that makes sensible decisions and is hastily grabbing the wheel.

Rick looks skyward and huffs exaggeratedly. “Look, I promise we won’t rob you again. Okay? Now pack some stuff and we’ll get going.”

He gestures toward a door at the back of your living area- which is in fact the bathroom, so you roll your eyes at him and go through your actual bedroom door and pull an overnight bag out of your closet. This is a terrible idea and you know it, and you don’t even have booze to blame it on at four pm on a Friday, but you start digging through your dresser looking for outfits. 

You’re a college student, so for the most part your outfits are comfortable and casual, not to mention one of your dressier outfits is kaput thanks to Rick ripping it off you (why are you going with him again? Oh yes, everything that happened after that.) So you change into a casual outfit that's still comfortable for travel, pack your best night-out-with-the-girls outfit and a few other bits and pieces you look good in, throw in the toiletries bag you haven't unpacked from the last trip, and re-enter the living room. 

Rick grabs the bag out of your hands without so much as a by-your-leave and rifles through it, ignoring your curse of protest and fending off your hands as you try to take it back.

“Is this all you have?”

You resist the urge to throttle him. “You didn’t tell me what we’re doing or where we’re going, what the hell did you expect?”

“Fine, fine, we’ll just pick up some stuff when we get there. You probably don’t have anything nice enough anyway, judging from this.”

He shoves the bag back in your general direction, letting go of it before you’ve quite caught hold, and as you scramble to catch it he pulls an odd-looking pistol-like device from his pocket (it definitely shouldn’t have fit in there, you think vaguely) and fires towards your kitchenette. A green, wavy hole opens up in the air a few feet in front of the two of you, and you gape. 

He takes your hand and drag-leads you through the waving green mess and you’re suddenly blinking in the intensely bright heat and light of a desert sun, the noise of cars suddenly bombarding you along with the smell of exhaust and dust. 

Your head snaps from one side to the other. You stare. The streets are wide and lined with buildings, most of which sport elaborate neon signs, shut off now in the daytime glare. 

“What. The fuck. Just happened.”

Rick shrugged and tucked the gun back into his jacket. You’re still not sure it should fit in there.

“Short hop. Quicker than taking the train.”

"How?" You're proud of how steady your voice is.

"I don't have a blackboard or the four years it would take to teach you the basics." 

"The short version, " you growl.

"I have a gun, it has a dial. I set it to where I want to be and fire. Woosh, green stuff, we're there. Now c'mon, I want to get into some air conditioning."

“No.” Your voice is firm. “I want to know how you got it. And if I’m in danger being around you because you have it.”

Rick sighs. “You’re not. I made it. I make things, okay? It’s, it’s what I do.”

“You can make things like that and you steal for money?”

“No, I steal for fun. Stan steals for money. And fun. As far as my inventions, most of them I don’t want out there in the, wherever. Can you imagine if everyone had one of these? Mass chaos! Humans, all of them idiots, running freely through the universes, pulling their shit on other planets, wrecking galaxies. It’s- it’s not feasible. I’d be miserable. So things like this I keep to myself. I patent a few of the others, keeps me in booze money. So can we please go somewhere cool? The sun is boiling my eyeballs.”

He drags you down the street and into a shop as you’re trying to process that; and at first you think it was a random choice, but then as you look around you realize that it’s full of high-end lingerie and Rick is casting about looking for something. 

“Okay, “ he says after a moment, pulling you down an aisle. “Here. This one.” 

He grabs a bra and panty set in satin from one of the hangers, and although you waste a glare on him for choosing for you, when you hold up the set against your skin in the mirror you’re surprised at how well the color suits you. Rick might be an asshole, but he’s certainly got an eye for aesthetics.

Still. “I think these, “ you say, hanging the set back up and choosing another from a rack further on- still in the same color but a different cut, one you prefer, with lace and straps just so to show yourself off in a way that pleases you more.

Rick grunts acknowledgement and gestures to the mannequins and clothing stands in the center of the store. “Find a dress.”

“They’re out of my price range-”

“I’m buying. It’s a part of Stan’s present. Find a dress.”

You wander through the center of the shop for a bit, looking at this and that and being ignored by Rick, who is also striding about in and out of aisles. You pull a dress here and a dress there, holding them up and squinting into mirrors, considering, checking out the fit of various cuts on the mannequins, and finally you winnow them down to three that accompany you into the fitting room. 

The first two are fine, but the third is perfect. It’s noticeable without being too flashy, classic without being too formal, and seductive without showing off more than you want. You turn in front of the mirror and smile at the full effect, then redress and carry your prize back out into the store, where Rick is waiting. He eyes the dress critically and then nods. 

“Shoes, “ he says, and walks with you to the shoe department. 

Apparently your choice has reassured him as far as your taste and he doesn’t interfere as you choose heels to match your dress (which is good because at this point you’d have happily gotten in a fight with him in the middle of the store- you have been tagged, tracked, and hauled through a portal using technology you're still half-convinced is impossible and you're absolutely done with his shit today) wordlessly gesturing towards the accessories where you choose a purse. He takes everything from you and walks purposely to the counter, where the sales assistant wraps each item in tissue paper and adds them to a wrapped pile already present. The number she rings up is obscene to your perpetually-in-debt college ears, but he pays nonchalantly with a wad of cash as though he did this all the time. 

Maybe he did. Your knowledge of them is confined to a very narrow band, you muse, as the sales associate places the stack of packages into a large paper shopping bag; they're grifters, sure, but apparently by choice and not necessity. You know firsthand that they like sex and drugs and rock and roll, but what else? If Rick is a coked-up genius, what does Stan do when he’s not thieving?

“C’mon, “ Rick says, hanging the bag over his arm, and leads you back out into the heat and glare. You have to hustle to keep up with him; those long, long legs give him an unfair advantage, but he only heads along the street until it t-bones onto a wide avenue. Looking up and down you see neon signs that made the ones you’d seen earlier look like beer signs in a cheap bar. Silver City is on your right, the Royal Inn is on your left, and Westward Ho and Stardust are across the street ahead of you. 

“We’re in Las Vegas, ” you say. 

“Mm, “ Rick nods, as he waits for the crosswalk lights to change. 

“Let me get this straight. You have a device that allows travel anywhere in the universe-”

“Uni_verse_s-”

“And you used it to go to _ Vegas_?”

Rick shrugs. “Stan likes it here. It’s not so bad. I prefer Atlantic City, but it’s not my trip.”

The light changes and you scramble to keep up again as Rick strides across the street and up the wide front walk to the Stardust. It’s past its heyday, but so is the Strip, really, and the history here is still evident despite the fading glamour. It’s still beautiful inside, and you’re actually kind of impressed. 

"Boy, you went all out on this vacation, huh?"

"It's a little different than the last time, yeah. Fleabag motels have their own charm, but sometimes you want to live it up a little."

He checks in under a ridiculously complicated last name, apparently just so he can smile patronizingly at the desk clerk as he tries vainly to pronounce it, and tucks the bright brass key into his pocket, giving you the duller spare. He hands your bag and the shopping to the bellboy ("I'll give you a tip if you can pronounce my name correctly by the time we reach the room") and spends the elevator ride listening to him stumble over syllables, occasionally rattling it off nonchalantly as though the triple epiglottal stops were no big deal. The bellboy is still trying when Rick shuts the door in his face.

"That was mean, " you say, and Rick chuckles. 

"You say that as though it should make it less fun."

"In a perfect world, yes."

"Well, I'll let you know if I find one. Until then, I'm going to enjoy tormenting the inmates of this one with sounds an unmodified human voicebox can't make."

The noise that comes out of his mouth when he opens it is metallic and indescribable. You shake your head and turn to survey the room as he cackles.

_ It's gorgeous_, is your first thought, and _ it's huge _ is your second. It's not technically a suite since it's all one room, but there's a living area with couches, desk, and TV, with two large ornamental screens between there and the bedroom to give it a sense of privacy. A well-furnished kitchenette with a breakfast nook is tucked in one corner, a set of stocked liquor shelves next to it complete with bar and two stools. Everything is decorated in a tropical theme; polished hardwood floors, thick rugs in bright patterns, rattan furniture, potted plants with lush flowers, exotic artwork, and the far wall is completely mirrored, creating the illusion of an even larger space. The bed is likewise enormous, with an iron headboard decorated with trailing vines and leaves and flowers in painted metal.

You set down your bag on the suitcase stand and walk around taking in the room. Peeking out past the curtains gives you a view of the Vegas sprawl and the desert beyond, the pale blue sky clear of clouds and the sun sinking towards the horizon. Rick stands beside you for a moment, watching the cars roll by on the street below. 

“C’mon baby, get dressed, “ he says finally, “We’re meeting Stan for dinner in an hour.”

Surprisingly Rick lets you have the bathroom first (albeit while mumbling some chauvinistic nonsense about women and getting ready; you cuff his shoulder hard as you pass him and he laughs) so you take a quick shower and then set to work. Your travel bag still had a good selection of toiletries from your last trip, so by the time you're done and dressed in your new clothes you look good, smell good, and- aside from a little nervousness- you feel pretty damned great. 

Rick bustles in as you're exiting and reappears later damp and clean-shaven in a new button-up with the sleeves rolled up over his elbows and a pair of black slacks that actually fall to the correct point over his battered black boots. (You imagine him grumbling his way through a Big and Tall store and stifle a giggle.) He's wearing a tie, technically, but it's uneven and loose and the knot is lopsided. You look at it for a moment and he curses quietly and looks away.

"Let me fix it, " you say gently, and he allows you to take it off him and reset it, carefully wrapping and tying it in a Nicky knot since he doesn’t seem like the double Windsor type. 

"I'm a genius, " he stammers, as you're finishing the knot and you nod, straightening his collar as you bite back a smile.

"You're a sharp-looking one, " you say neutrally, and he grins. 

"You're fine, too. C'mon, let's go."

He leads you through down the hotel and into a covered hallway that leads to a connected restaurant. Wooden tikis and volcanic stone moai heads flank a brightly-painted sign proclaiming, "Aku-Aku - A Taste of the Tropics!" Inside the waiting area the decor is all bamboo and somber colors and more tikis and moais and it’s so overwhelmingly Sixties you giggle. You'd feel overdressed except for all the other snappily-garbed guests around- apparently it's a semi-formal level of cheese.

You see movement from the corner of your eye and Rick vanishes towards it, and you turn to see Stan, in a decent suit (!) holding Rick at arm's length, looking him up and down with grinning approval.

"...get it tied so nice?" he's asking as you approach, and Rick shrugs and turns him to face you.

"Stan!” you say, and he looks you up and down in surprise. A wide smile spreads across his face and he says your name with real pleasure. 

"Surprise!" Rick says, "How do you- how do you like your present?"

Stan has already covered the few steps to you and spins you around as you giggle. 

"Just what I wanted, " he says, with a big grin that doesn’t quite mask a deep tiredness. You can see dark circles under his eyes.

"God, you look good! How've you been, sugar?" he asks, and any remaining resentment you have melts away. 

"Same ol' same ol', " you grin, and on impulse you stroke the side of his face, "You been working too hard again?"

"Maybe a little, yeah, " he says, "Not this weekend, though. This weekend I'm gonna enjoy myself. 'Specially if you two are here to help."

“I think we’re both very happy to help, “ you smile, and Stan’s smile is knowing and pleased. He opens his mouth to say something, but at that moment a quiet cough from behind you signals the maître d' and he guides you to a table with tall chairs and low lights and more of the ubiquitous tikis. The maître d' starts to pull out your chair but Stan waves him off and does it himself. 

When your waiter arrives you all choose drinks from the elaborate menu, trying to outdo each other in the goofiness of your drink’s name- a Bora Bora Swizzle, Moon and Sixpence, and a Ship of Flame are quickly ordered, more or less with straight faces, along with some dubiously tropical (yet extremely tasty) appetizers. By the time you’ve halfway through your first drink you’ve fallen in fondness with the place; it’s goofy, but endearingly so. And they don’t stint on the rum. 

You drink your ridiculously bright and fruit-filled drinks and try not to spit them out laughing as you listen to Stan’s stories, each more hilarious than the last. Occasionally Rick interjects, but for the most part he sits quietly and listens, smiling, even though you get the feeling he’s heard them all before.

You haven’t, though, and you swing between hysterics and disbelief, occasionally hitting both at once when an anecdote takes a particularly unexpected turn. (There can’t _ really _ be a lake monster that only chases parking couples, can there? How fast could a person run with their pants around their ankles? And why would nuns be camping so close to Makeout Point?) 

He pauses for a drink and Rick stands up from the table, draining the last of whatever rum-heavy concoction he’s been knocking back like weak coffee. 

“Gonna take a piss, “ Rick mumbles, and wanders off in the direction of the restrooms. 

“Thanks for sharing, “ you say towards his back, and Stan snorts before taking your hand in his. 

"Hey, " he says sheepishly, "Listen. About taking your money- when we pick someone up normally, everybody knows what they're in for. 'S a kind of everyone for themselves kind of thing. But you...You were sweeter than we usually get. An' I didn't figure it out until we were long gone. So, for what it's worth-"

He mumbles something you think is "I'm sorry, " and you squeeze his hand.

"I accept your apology, " you say, "Everything up until then was amazing. And tonight has been really fun."

He looks up hopefully. "You mean it?" 

"Yeah."

"Well, sweet thing, it can get better. You want to go dancing, and then hit a few games? Paint the town?”

“Ready when you are, “ you smile. 

Rick returns, making unnecessarily elaborate noises of contentment, which Stan ignores and you only dignify with an eyeroll.

“Shall we hit the dance floor, Ricky?” Stan asks, and Rick shakes his head and starts towards the door. 

"You go, " he says over his shoulder, "Enjoy your present. You can share her later. I'm gonna find a poker game."

Stan shakes his head. “I keep telling him that casino poker isn’t like real poker, but he thinks he has a system. Like everybody else.”

He puts out his elbow and you take it and he leads you back into the hotel and through into a small but elegant ballroom. The small band on the raised stage is playing in a comfortable rhythm, and after a moment you realize that they’ve arranged a popular song in an old style. 

Stan grins and whirls you out onto the floor, in amongst some other couples who vary from enthusiastic to very drunk and barely moving. Sidestepping them you let Stan lead you through several songs, enjoying the closeness and his delighted smile. He hums contentedly in your ear during a slow song, and you have to mentally pinch yourself a couple of times, trying to remember that you’re here for a fun weekend of strings-free sex, and you shouldn’t be getting soft about the grifter with his arms around you, swaying you gently to the beat. 

After a while, Stan suggests the casino and you cheerfully accept. What’s a trip to Vegas without a visit to a casino? And you get the feeling that your guide has been here more than once and probably knows his way around.

This is confirmed as you walk through the expansive (and expensive) space; he comments on the games as you walk through, shaking his head at the slots and rolling his eyes at the keno, sidestepping the poker tables, cool as a cucumber as you head further in through the excited and well-dressed crowds. 

"Roulette's fun, but it's a sucker's game, " Stan says as you pass the table, the croupier calling the winning number and raking in the chips, "Any game's odds are in favor of the house, or else they wouldn't still be operating, but there are games with better odds if you at least want a chance of winning."

He stops at the blackjack table and pulls a handful of chips from his pocket, buying in to a place as he takes a seat. You stand behind him, hands on his shoulders, and watch him thoughtfully and carefully multiply his chips, taking small losses and making slow gains, outlasting the players nearby who seem determined to chase both hot streaks and losing ones with equal fervor and run out of money doing it. 

Stan is outwardly calm, but you can feel the excitement thrumming through his body. When at last he thinks he’s made enough at the table he stands and turns to you, eyes bright with excitement. 

“C’mon, lucky charm, let’s hit a game with a little more goin’ on.”

He takes you to the craps table and has a look at the other players, then settles himself to the stickman’s right and places a bet.

You don’t _ really _ understand the game; you know the player that rolls the dice is betting on whether they roll a winning or losing combination of numbers, at least at first, and you know the other players are also betting on whether the rolling player will make their roll or not, but the extra bets and points and side bets are a bit beyond you. But you also know that Stan clearly knows all of those minutiae and he’s putting his knowledge to good use; as the dice pass around he again makes small losses and steady gains, avoiding the bets at the center of the layout and placing the occasional stack behind his pass line bets, which the dealer and crew understand even though there’s nothing marked on the spot. More often than not when he decides on one of those they pan out, but when they don’t he doesn’t chase them, he just goes back to his steady method and waits until the gains start again. 

On the third time he takes the bones he smiles at you. You can feel the excitement in his frame as he rubs his shoulder gently against yours. 

“Last throw, babydoll, “ he says, and you smile back.

“Make it a good one, “ you reply, and he nods, eyes bright. 

“Pass, “ he says to the table, a shade theatrically, and sets a high stack of chips down. He waits as the dealer and crew take the other players’ bets, then holds up his dice and grins at you You cup your hand over his and blow gently on them in what you hope is a properly seductive and/or luck-infusing manner. He throws and you watch with bated breath as the dice roll and bounce off the back wall.

“Yo-leven, “ the dealer calls as they still, and Stan laughs in delight as other players either congratulate him or swear, depending on whether they bet for the roll or against it. The dealer gives him his winnings and the crew begins to hand out winnings to the rest of the players. A beautiful woman in a cheongsam dress hands you a small stack from her pile, closing her hand around yours as she gives you the chips. She smiles at you with amusement as you blush.

Stan tips the table staff generously before handing his chips to an attendant with a request to cash him out and put it in the safe. He puts his arm around your waist. 

“C’mon, doll, “ he says, spinning you around, the energy he’s been hiding suddenly bounding exuberantly to the surface, “Let’s find somewhere to celebrate.”

_ Somewhere _ turns out to be the VIP mens’ room - more glamorous than it sounds, as you consider that just one couch in the foyer (the bathroom has a foyer, you marvel, and you have to stifle a giggle) would set you back three months’ rent. The tile is gorgeous and the decorations are ridiculously posh and it smells like sandalwood and bergamot and not...anything else. 

Stan surveys the area and, finding it empty, takes something from his pocket and fiddles with the door and the bolt above the lock clicks.

"There. A little privacy."

He’s reaching for you as he turns, and suddenly you’re up against the expensive wallpaper with his body molded against you and his lips on yours and damn, as much fun as the memories and the fantasizing were you’d somehow forgotten just how good he is at this, how much the groan he gives against your mouth turns you on, how you shudder for him as his big hands slide all over you. 

“All night you’ve been driving me crazy, “ he moans, mouth on your neck, as your hands tighten in his hair, “That dress- god, baby, didja _ see _ how many people were staring at how gorgeous you look? That woman at the craps table, she was lookin’ at you like you were something to _ eat_, but you were on _ my _ arm, _ my _ lucky charm, an’ god, I can’t take it anymore, I need you, baby-”

Your “yes” comes out half-squeal as his mouth leaves marks on your neck while his thumbs run over your nipples and your pleasure spikes but his relieved chuckle is even better, as are his hands on your thighs as he drops to his knees. 

He slides the dress carefully up to your waist and his eyes widen at the silky underthings revealed.

“Shit, “ he breathes, “Oh sugar, all this for me?”

You smile wickedly in lieu of an answer and he grabs your hips, nuzzling against your mound, burying his face against you and licking you through the fabric as you squeak. 

“So pretty, it’d be a shame to wreck them, “ he says, and pulls them off you carefully, holding still while you balance with your hands on his shoulders to step out of them. Then his mouth is back on your cunt, licking with such enthusiasm the back of your head hits the wall with a thump you might be embarrassed about if you weren’t too busy whimpering praise and encouragements. Your head hits the wall again as he slides two fingers into you and you grab his hair and hang on tight as he licks and fingerfucks you to a ridiculously quick orgasm- seriously, you’ve been with guys who can’t get you to come given half an hour, but Stan does it in less than five minutes, how the hell is that even _ possible _ \- and his pleased rumble of “_That’s _ my girl” as you whimper for him hits you straight in the libido (and other places you refuse to consider- fun and no-strings, fun and no-strings, you repeat mentally.) 

“You’re so fucking good, baby, “ he breathes, and stands, unzipping his pants and pulling his cock free of his boxers. You barely have time to lick your lips before he’s hooking one hand under your thigh and pulling your leg up. You manage to set your foot on the arm of one of the nearby couches and hang on to his shoulders as he adjusts himself and then he’s inside you, that sweet stretch you remembered making the world blur for a moment as he hitches against you and groans. 

“Ain’t gonna last too long, “ he says apologetically, “I’ll make it up to you later.”

You roll your hips against him and kiss him in answer and he starts to move, as fast and hard as he can considering the angle, and you dissolve into a series of muffled noises as you press your face against his neck. 

There’s a knock at the door and you look over in startlement, but Stan just growls and fucks you harder. The knocking is repeated and Stan sucks another bruise on the side of your neck and the noise you make causes the knocking to stop in a hurry. He manages to get a hand in between you and his thumb on your clit and starts a rough grind, chuckling breathlessly as your noises increase in volume.

“Atta girl, let ‘em hear you. Let ‘em know what they’re missing.”

You should probably be embarrassed, but his enthusiasm is infectious and when your orgasm hits you wail instead of smothering it against his shoulder. He shudders against you and huffs praise into your neck as he comes, and he thrusts twice more before your feel his cock pulse inside you.

After a moment Stan untangles the two of you gently.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, kid, “ he grins, and hands you back your underwear. You step back into them- uncaring of the mess they’re going to be in about a minute, when gravity takes over- pulling them up and straightening your dress as Stan gestures to the door. 

“C’mon, beautiful. Give it your best strut.”

He holds the door for you and then saunters out, grinning smugly. You raise your chin and put your shoulders back and he gives you his elbow again and leads you past the line of waiting men, keeping himself between you and them, ignoring the looks he’s getting- some angry, some envious, some bored. One man looks as though he’s going to say something but Stan gives him a glare that actually sets him back a pace and you continue on down the hall towards the elevators.

When you get to the room Stan is already yawning, and after a quick bathroom trip he hangs up his suit and stretches out on the bed and is asleep in under a minute. You chuckle and use the facilities yourself, undressing and hanging your dress carefully, rinsing the silky underthings, and changing into a comfortably casual outfit. You use the kitchenette to make yourself a hot drink, settling in to one of the overstuffed chairs with one of the art books from the rather well-stocked bookshelf, and have a pleasant rest sipping your drink and reading while Stan snores quietly.

An hour or so later the door rattles and Rick steps in, looking over the room with a quick glance before stripping out of his dress clothes and tossing them haphazardly across the floor. He fishes the gun out of his clothes and fires; the green mess appears and he steps through, returning a few minutes later clad in jeans and a t-shirt for a band you’ve never heard of. He twists a dial on the gun and the portal vanishes. 

“Really?” you say quietly, and he looks at you.

“What?”

“You invented a gun that lets you go literally anywhere and you use it to avoid packing a suitcase?”

He flips you off over his shoulder and looks at Stan’s sleeping form with guarded fondness, until he notices you watching and then quickly turns away and gestures to the door.

“C’mon, let’s go get a drink.”

You hide a grin, putting on your sneakers to follow him. 

A drink at the hotel bar turns into a few, and then he’s leading you down the street to a bar he swears has the best fries in town, gesticulating wildly as he does so (“I dunno what they put on ‘em - mushrooms or something? Avocado? Nutmeg? Something like that, anyway...”) and the fries are excellent, but they lead to more drinks, and a few more after that, and at a pause in the rapid-fire rate of Rick’s conversation (mainly personal criticisms of everyone who passes by, in between drags on his ridiculously overpriced cigarettes) you watch him swaying gently to the jukebox as he stares into the crowd and you decide you’ve had enough drinks to ask him a question. 

“How did you know I wouldn’t sell the bracelet?”

He startles you by smiling; a half-smile, but it’s still there. 

“Because I saw the way you looked at Stan, and he’s the one who chose it for you. If I had put it on you...well, you’d have been much less likely to keep it, and I’d have had to put the tracker somewhere else, and that would have been more- more difficult to do without you noticing, let’s say. Unless I provided some _ really _serious distractions.”

“I get the picture, “ you say, taking a swig of your drink to try and erase the mental image.

“Seriously, it’s harder than you think to keep even a small device in an orifice for any length of time- _ any _ orifice, in fact; even, say, an ear-”

“Thank you, that’s enough of that.”

“I mean everyone automatically assumes the anus but let’s face it it’s designed to expel things-”

“Rick! Please.”

It’s the please more than anything else, you think, that does it. He looks at you a moment, studying, and then smiles again, this time the smile of someone who has just figured out the winning move in an entertaining game.

“I think that might be the first time you’ve said please to me. I think I’d like to hear it again.”

“Please stop talking about orifices. How’s that?”

He snorts. “How about I stop talking about the scientific applications of insertable tracking technology, but I keep talking about places on your body I’d like to see you beg me to fill?”

He continues as you take a swig of your drink, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks.

“We haven’t done that yet, have we? Made you- had you beg. I was begging you, as I recall, and that was fun, but I- you know what versatile means? Not, like, the dictionary definition, but-”

You nod slightly- you’d done a little reading when you’d gotten home from New York City (it was surprising what the collegiate interlibrary loan system could come up with, although you’re not sure the librarian is ever going to look at you the same way again.)

“Good, been doing your research.” Half his drink vanishes in a swallow. “So we’ve done the you dicking me thing, we’ve done the basically equals thing, and now I’m thinking it’s time I show you what it’s like to be the one taking a few orders. Sounds good? You not too fucked out from earlier?”

This time you’re the one knocking back half your drink- you stifle a cough as you swallow, but Rick hears it and chuckles.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Why don’t we head back? Stan’s had- what, like three hours to sleep? That’s plenty. He’ll want in.”

He rises from the table and starts towards the door, not looking back to see if you’re following. You suspect this is part of the game and you jog to catch up, glad you’re wearing sneakers as you try to keep pace with Rick on a mission for the second time today. 

He’s uncharacteristically silent on the ride up the elevator, but once the door of the room shuts behind you he’s all energy again, flipping the lights on and kicking the mattress. “Hey baby, wake up. Got a pretty little pet right here and you’re sleeping away your vacation. C’mon, up and at ‘em. I’ve got an idea.”

Stan says a few uncomplimentary things that Rick takes in stride, but stretches and sits up.

“What have you got in mind, Ricky?” he asks, yawning.

Rick gestures to you. "I suggest we let her watch. But we tie her up. Let her wait to come for a change."

His tone is certain but Stan raises an eyebrow at you first, waiting.

"Yes, " you manage, and he grins. Rick is already pulling a length of soft rope out of Stan’s suitcase, following it with a straight metal bar about two feet long with an eyelet attached to each end. 

"The rules are, " Rick begins, as he arranges the rope in his hands, "You can watch, but you can't touch. We can touch you, and you won't come until we decide you can. Okay?" 

“Okay.”

“Good. Strip.”

You do so, feeling their gazes on your body as though they had actual weight. When the last scrap of clothing is dropped Rick is right there, sitting you down on the edge of the bed and guiding your hands to the iron rails of the headboard. He ties your wrists gently but firmly to the decorative metal scrollwork and has you try to get free. When you fail (spectacularly) he ties your ankles to either end of the bar, then secures the outside edge to the bedframe so you can't move towards the center of the bed. You look at your bindings with a slivver of concern.

Stan sees it and strokes one big hand soothingly over your hip. "Now, sweet thing, this is a kindness. We’re starting slow. If you want to try it without the ties later we'll be happy to oblige, but this way you can struggle all you like and we won't have to punish you for disobeying. And you have your word; use it if you need to."

You nod, and then Rick is climbing over you and pulling Stan into a kiss that’s all teeth and tongues and lip-biting and low growls and the breath catches in your throat. He straddles Stan and kisses his neck, grinding their hips together as you watch with wide eyes. 

While still kissing Stan, Rick reaches out with one long arm and starts to touch you, barely. He strokes you in places you didn’t know were sensitive; the backs of your knees, the insides of your elbows, your wrists, just behind your ears; all these he teases with one fingertip. You’re not sure if it’s the bindings or the sight of them together or both but every light touch sends lightning down your spine.

Rick sits back on Stan’s thighs and pulls his shirt off over his head one-handed, then stretches out on the bed between you to kick his pants and boxers off and turns to look at you conspiratorially. 

“You know, I don’t have the equipment to, uh, to test it properly, but I’m preeetty sure that Stan sucks cock just as well as he eats pussy.”

Your eyes widen as Stan grins and sits up to kiss his way down Rick's neck to his chest, tonguing his nipple bars as Rick moans happily, then down over each rib, over one skinny hip, and you're pretty sure you just gasped audibly as Stan grabs Rick's cock in one big hand and takes the head of it in his mouth. 

Rick’s eyes roll back in his head and he winds his hands in Stan’s hair. Stan makes an appreciative rumble and uses his other hand to stroke Rick’s thighs and balls, still working half of Rick’s length in his mouth while holding the rest firmly in his fist. You can see them in the mirrored wall, your eyes flickering back and forth from the mirror image to the real thing, and your heartbeat quickens. 

“Okay, ease off a minute, “ Rick says, letting go of Stan’s hair, “Don’t want this show to end early.”

Stan sits up and leans back on his heels, wiping his mouth off on the back of his hand. Rick sits up as well and strips Stan of his boxers, slowly, interspersed with groping and groans and kisses that are mostly tongue and you tug on your bonds, wanting to touch.

Rick notices and grins. “Aww, is someone feeling left out?”

Stan stretches out on his side and watches as Rick turns to you, reaching out with one hand to trace the ropes binding your hands. His long fingers trail down your arms, between your collarbones, and wrap around your throat.

You instinctively suck in a breath, but he just rests it there at first, fingertips and thumb rubbing the side of your neck. His other hand rubs over your hip, kneading the flesh there, and unhurriedly slides his thumb to your clit, where it begins a series of slow circles. 

"Breathe in, " he says, and as you do the hand around your throat squeezes, gently at first, then tighter as you don't protest.

After a few seconds he eases his grip and you breathe out in a rush.

"You good?" he asks, and looks pleased when you nod, "If it's too much, snap your fingers."

You nod again and breathe in and his hand tightens again, and this time his thumb speeds up on your clit. It's a few seconds longer until he lets go this time, and a few longer yet on the next breath, and you're starting to get lightheaded but it makes the sensations from between your legs more intense- by the time you're starting to get desperate to breathe you're also sure you can feel every separate ridge on his fingerprint as his thumb drags over your clit. You try to moan but can't as he takes his thumb away, but then he's sliding two long fingers into you and your back comes right off the bed.

Rick fucks you with his fingers instead of letting you breathe, still watching your face closely, and your hips buck against his hand. Everything feels incredible, your heart is pounding in your ears and your chest and your clit, and you were already halfway to a hazy orgasm, but when his hand cups your mound again you're suddenly right there, your face pleading as he takes you to the edge- and then he lets go with both hands, pulling away and stretching casually.

The noise you make as you suck in a much-needed breath while simultaneously exclaiming in dismay makes Rick burst out laughing. Even Stan grins. You sputter, yanking at the ropes.

"Easy, " Stan says, "A little goes a long way with that stuff." 

A distant corner of your mind can see his point, but for the most part you just want to come, no matter how they decide to do it. 

“Please let me loose?”

They look at you, considering. “Are you sure?”

You nod, and Rick undoes the knots swiftly, tossing the rope and the bar off to the side. “All right, there you go. The same rules apply. We touch you, you don’t touch us - and you don’t touch yourself, either.”

You nod your acceptance, not trusting what would come out if you spoke. Rick leans over Stan and straddles him at the thighs, licking his palm theatrically and then leaning down for a kiss before wrapping his hand around Stan’s cock and starting to pump it. 

You’re licking your lips before you even realize you’re doing it. “Please, “ you whisper, “Please let me touch you.”

“When we’re ready, and not before, “ Rick says, and his voice is so reasonable, so satisfied as you whine and dig your fingers into your arms to avoid reaching for them or between your legs to end the ache. 

“That’s our good girl, “ Stan groans, “Look at you, sugar, you know how pretty you are like this? Tryin’ to be good for us?”

You moan and clutch at your arms tighter. You want to come, but the praise is addictive. You want them to keep telling you you’re good, even if they leave you on this knife-edge all night. Even if they leave you to your own devices and only concentrate on each other. 

Stan is rocking his hips now with the rhythm of Rick’s hand, breath coming in deep pants in between deeper kisses. He bites Rick’s lower lip and groans, and Rick grins and whispers something you can’t quite catch, but Stan is suddenly coming in spurts all over his stomach and you whine in the back of your throat. 

Rick’s hand slows and then stops, and Stan sighs deeply with satisfaction and leans back on the pillows, arms crossed behind his head. Rick leans on one shoulder next to you and makes a production of licking his fingers clean while you stare at him. 

“What?” he says, “Still feeling left out? Well, we can’t- we shouldn’t let that happen.”

He runs his fingers down your stomach and presses two of them against your opening, chuckling when he feels how absolutely soaked you are. You try not to lift your hips, you really do, but a shudder runs through you that he feels. 

“Look at you, so fucking ready. Bet it nearly hurts.”

You nod, and his fingers slip and slide through your wetness and start a ticklish drumming against your clit. He presses two fingers of the other hand, the one he’d jerked Stan off with, against your mouth and you open it obediently as he presses them inside. You suck the lingering taste off his fingers, swirling your tongue around them. 

Rick makes a hungry sound and increases the tempo of his other hand, and soon you’re at the edge of orgasm. As your back and hips tense he slows, fingertips skating down and around your opening, your thighs, anywhere but where you need him to be. You suck at his fingers harder, licking his fingertips with the tip of your tongue, and he starts on your clit again, but before you can even sigh in relief he brings you to the edge again and stops, and the noise that leaves your throat is pitiful. You’re crying now, you realize; tears are running down your cheeks. 

“You’re so beautiful like this, “ Rick says, taking his fingers from your mouth to trace the track of a tear as it rolls down your face, “You want so badly to come, but you’re trying so hard to please; what a good little pet.”

Beside you on the bed, Stan hums agreement from deep in his chest. Rick’s hands are on your thighs now and he pulls your hips up onto his lap and slides his cock an inch or two into you, achingly slowly, and you whimper, if a noise so loud can be called that. You’re so keyed up you don’t understand why you don’t come just off the shallow slide of him into you; you swear you can feel every millimeter of penetration like a separate thunderbolt, but he’s got your legs spread at just the right distance to avoid any stimulation to your clit, and his angle is careful to avoid your g-spot. It’s maddening and incredible all at once and it takes everything you have just to lay still and wait. 

“Please, ” you say, but you’re not sure what you’re asking for, to come or just to touch him. Rick gives a strained chuckle. 

“So eager, “ he says, a little breathlessly.

“She has been very good, “ Stan comments lazily, “I think maybe she’s earned it.”

“It’s your weekend, “ Rick says, trying for nonchalance but clearly approaching the edge himself, and at Stan’s smile he nods and shifts you under him, angling his hips and holding you at the waist with one hand as the heel of his hand presses against your clit and as he rocks as much of himself into you as you can take. You hit that familiar edge of the peak again and this time, finally, _ finally_, he keeps going and shoves you off the precipice and you _ shriek _ as the orgasm tears through you, your hands grabbing his arms to try and hold fast to something, anything, Rick cursing a blue streak as he comes, the tremendous spasms throbbing through your cunt pulling him over the edge with you in a tangle of limbs and profanity. You don’t have words for this kind of intensity; it’s like the floor dropped out of the elevator and you’re falling fifty stories and the orgasm just keeps going, Rick still gamely grinding his palm against you even though his eyes are screwed shut and he’s breathing through clenched teeth. You’re not entirely sure if you’re coming a second time or if this is just one hell of a long run, and then the wave crests _ again _ and nothing escapes your throat but a rattle of air, and you let go to clutch at the sheets and flail with one foot, shoving Rick away from you and nearly off the bed. 

You roll over in a lurch and curl up on your side, shaking. You’re a mess, a crying, snotty, sweaty, gasping mess. You can’t seem to get air fast enough and your sobs are raw enough to scare you a little. Rick throws a blanket over you and rolls you into Stan's arms, then wraps his own around you. 

"Too much?" Stan asks, and you nod while croaking “No” and he gives a short chuckle. He runs his hands slowly over your blanketed form, Rick following suit. The blanket keeps the sensation at soothing and not overwhelming and you sigh happily as your tears slow and your body starts to relax.

“You were so good for us, “ Rick says, Stan agreeing with kiss to the top of your head, and you’re surprised at how much the praise warms you, even after the sex is done.

When your shakes subside they unwrap you from the blanket and between the two of them they get you into the bathroom and into the enormous jacuzzi tub, propping you up between them as they talk about this and that. The hot water and jets turn you into a pleasantly fuzzy pile of jelly, and it’s with regret that you let them help you out of the tub. Still, the rubdown afterward feels wonderful, the towels super soft and fluffy (you consider stealing a few for yourself before you leave) and Rick bustles around in the kitchenette fixing hot drinks while Stan settles you next to him on the biggest couch. He turns on the tv and flips through the channels as Rick brings in a tray and sets it on the coffee table, stopping at a period mystery drama on public television. That wasn't what you'd have expected from him, but it's nice, snuggled up on one side of him with Rick sat against him on the other while you sip your drinks and quietly discuss the case in hand, trying to uncover the murderer before the sarcastic Belgian detective does.

Rick swaps his choice of suspect halfway through, but by the end of the episode it’s clear that his first choice was the correct one, and he tries and fails to convince you and Stan that his second choice was just a stalking horse to throw you both off the track. He gets a little animated about it, until Stan starts stroking his hair and he subsides with a grumble, getting up for another round of hot drinks. 

The next show is actually a movie, a parody of early detectives and their genres, and thankfully you had that American Popular Lit class as an elective so you actually get the references, and all of the (crude but hilarious) jokes. The cast is excellent (and holy shit, is that Truman Capote?) and by the end you’re all laughing like hyenas. 

“Okay, “ Stan says, once the credits have rolled, “Bed time. C’mon, you two.”

You tumble into bed on one side of Stan, Rick on the other, and after a bit of fussing and shifting you all manage to get comfortable. Rick falls asleep first, his breathing evening out, then the sound of Stan’s soft snoring fills the air. You listen to them both, smiling faintly, until sleep drifts up over you like an old friend.

Rick is already awake and dressed when you wake up and carefully extract yourself from Stan’s sleeping form; he’s watching some kind of action show while wolfing down an enormous pastry. Several more are arranged on a tray, along with carafes of various juices, and you take some of both and sit down next to him. There was a time in your life where you’d have been nervous or embarrassed or both to be casually nude, but that time is apparently past, at least with these two. You munch pastries and drink juice and discuss the program in low tones until a yawn and some thumping announce Stan’s return to the land of wakefulness. He stumbles towards the breakfast tray, absent-mindedly scratching his belly, and joins you on the couch while he eats. 

“You wanna spend the afternoon at the pool? Rest up a bit for the evening?” Stan asks, and you agree, before remembering that you didn’t pack a swimsuit. 

“It’s all right, “ Stan says, when you bring it up, “There’s a store here somewhere. We’ll go find you one. My treat.” 

You had assumed that Rick would remain on the couch, glued as he appeared to be to the TV program, but he shuts it off and comes with you as you and Stan head towards the lobby.

There is in fact a store that sells nearly everything; the front is stuffed with tourist gewgaws (which Stan looks over thoroughly but is either contemptuous of or calculating towards, for some reason) and the back is full of various kinds of clothing, sunglasses, suitcases, shoes, umbrellas, hiking boots, maps, backpacks, compasses, and just about anything else you might have forgotten on your trip. You find a swimsuit that makes you feel super cute and a cover-up to go with it, and once changed you head to the center of the hotel where the Olympic-sized pool is open to the broad desert sky. 

Like the rest of the complex, the pool area is somehow both over the top and gorgeous at the same time. Everything is white tile scrubbed so clean that even the grout sparkles. At intervals there are wide areas of sand cleared for palm trees to grow, and lounge chairs with fluffy towels are scattered underneath in the shade. A tiled fountain splashes pleasantly nearby.

There’s a diving board and you watch as Rick scrambles up the ladder and does a cannonball off the high board. He’s so skinny he barely makes a splash and coughs up water, and you and Stan laugh at him as he swears at you both and makes what you assume is an obscene gesture.

Stan tackles the high board next and his cannonball sends a respectable geyser skywards. He swims underwater to the edge of the pool where you’re standing, then surfaces and pulls you in with a laugh. He’s still laughing when you dunk him and comes up spraying water from between his teeth. 

You swim awhile, nap awhile in one of the big lounge chairs, and swim again. You consider another nap, but evening is drawing near, so you retire back to the room and the three of you order room service and watch a ludicrous action film while you all make fun of it and Rick throws food at the screen.

Later, after you’ve all had some time to digest, Rick mutters something about “freshening up” and grabs the bag from your shopping trip before disappearing into the bathroom. At first you don’t pay much attention, but Stan perking up on the couch next to you and the realization that Rick isn’t at all shy about announcing specific bodily functions hit your awareness about the time he exits the bathroom. 

He stops in the middle of the room and your jaw drops as you take him in - he's shed his outfit, yes, but now he's wearing an underbust corset in midnight blue, a thick black leather collar with a heavy chromed D-ring, and a garter belt in the same midnight blue holds up black stockings on his long, long legs. 

"Wow, " you manage, and he shoots you a brief look and you swear you see a flicker of a smile. A folded black leather leash dangles from his right hand and he offers it to Stan, who practically purrs as he takes it.

"You sure clean up pretty, " he says, and stands to clip the lead on, "Doesn't he?"

This to you and you nod, still staring. Your experience with men in lingerie is nil, and you suddenly wonder why they aren't wearing it all the time. 

“It’s your vacation, “ Rick says, smiling crookedly, “Dealer’s choice.”

Stan taps his lips with one finger thoughtfully. “You’re spoiling me, Ricky.”

He gestures to you and you stand, and Stan pulls you into a kiss while his hands work on your clothes; you return the favor and after a few minutes and a lot of groping (and passing Rick’s leash back and forth) you’re both naked and breathing hard. Other things are hard, too; your hand closes around Stan’s cock and both he and Rick make a sound; one satisfied, one longing. 

You consider for a moment and then grab Rick’s cock with your free hand, just for a moment, stroking him slightly and then letting go, grinning at his whine of disappointment. 

“What should we do with him?” you ask, and Stan smiles.

He gestures you onto the bed and you happily comply, and he hands you Rick’s leash as he digs through his suitcase and comes up with a foil packet and a bottle of lube. 

“Get him on the bed, “ he says.

You lean back on the pile of pillows and tug experimentally on the leash. Rick walks to the foot and snorts.

"Is that all you got?"

Ah yes, you remember that tone. You wind the leather around your palm a couple of times and yank, snapping your wrist out and down. Rick- his shins against the bed- has no chance to catch himself and topples. He makes a strangled noise on the way down that somehow manages to sound appreciative and startled at the same time as he faceplants into the mattress, head in the vicinity of your knees.

You yank again, upwards this time, and he chokes and scrambles forward to release the pressure until he’s on all fours on the mattress. Stan chuckles. 

"Now, " he says, "You're going to make her come until she tells you to stop. And I'm going to smack you until I decide to stop. And then, if you're good, I'll fuck you."

"Yes, " Rick hisses, and attempts to dive in between your spread legs. You snap the leash again and he stops, puzzled.

"Start slow, " you admonish, "He said you have to be good. Show me how good you can be."

Rick looks up at you and nods, then stalks up your body- there's no other word for the way those long limbs move as he straddles you, knees on either side of your waist, his long fingers cupping the sides of your face, curving his shoulders down to bring his lips to yours. 

The first time Rick kissed you it was all teeth and scattershot energy. This time he holds that energy in focus, working his mouth against yours slowly but intensely, that familiar taste of cheap vodka and expensive cigarettes on your tongue as he teases your lips open. His fingers are at the nape of your neck, making small circles on either side of your spine and you shudder in delight as his lips trail downwards and brush carefully over the marks Stan left yesterday. He kisses your collarbones, your sternum, and as he moves to your breasts there’s a loud, sharp impact as Stan slaps Rick’s ass with an open hand and his body shakes. 

“One, “ Stan says, and Rick's breath shivers against your skin.

He keeps his jaw loose as he licks your nipples so the second impact doesn’t end with him biting harder than either of you would enjoy, and you watch his nostrils flare on three as he slides his knees in between yours. Four hits him when his first finger enters you, five on the second, and when you tell him you want more the sixth hit shakes his body as he presses in a third finger. His thumb slips off your clit for a second on six, and his already dilated pupils swallow his irises on seven as he presses his lips to yours.

You come on eight, Rick moaning against your mouth, and again on nine when a happy curse leaves his throat. You draw back to watch Stan as he delivers the tenth hit, and Rick looks back too, panting. 

"What do you think, sugar?” Stan asks, tracing the red mark he’s left behind, “You think he's been good enough?"

Rick looks at you pleadingly and you let him sweat for a moment before nodding. 

"I think so. But I'm not done with him either."

Stan smiles, that slow, dark, sweet smile that goes straight to your clit.

"Oh honey, I hoped you'd say that. I'd love to see you come on his face while I'm fucking him."

A bone-deep shudder goes through Rick at Stan's words and he nuzzles your thighs as Stan pushes his legs wider apart. You grab Rick by the hair and pull his face down to your cunt and he kisses you there, softly.

You hear the sound of the foil packet as Rick starts to lick at you, the sound of the cap on the lube bottle snapping open, the sound of slick fingers on flesh as Stan works Rick open for him. Rick grunts, the sound reverberating through you, and pushes his hips back.

“Easy, “ Stan says, and you tug the leash gently. Rick grumbles and mutters something against your thigh. 

“Just- “ he begins, and Stan shakes his head. 

“Nope. Say please, Ricky.”

“Please, “ Rick snarls through gritted teeth, and then groans gratefully as Stan shifts forward slowly until he’s seated in fully. 

Stan rocks his hips, gently at first, and Rick licks up into you, both of you moaning at once. As Stan increases speed so does Rick, stroking your hipbones with his thumbs as he sucks and licks at your clit. 

Stan runs his palm along Rick’s back, over the silk and onto skin, scraping his spine with blunt fingernails. 

“You look so good like this, Ricky, “ he says, “Got a dick in your ass and a pussy in your mouth, this is where you belong, isn’t it? Bein’ used. Nothin’ in that big brain but me an’ her an’ the need to blow your load. If we let you.”

The sound Rick makes is obscene and he grinds his face against your cunt as Stan slams his hips forward. You’re anchoring Rick to you with two fistfulls of his thick hair, rocking your hips against his mouth as guttural moans are drawn out of him and he rubs himself onto the mattress shamelessly. 

Stan digs his nails into Rick's hip. "If you come before her I'll tie you up an’ let your balls go blue."

Rick groans and tries to match the pace of your hips, rocking his head in time with you until he feels you take a sharp breath. Your fingers tighten in his hair and he whimpers happily. 

You're breathing so fast you're close to hyperventilating, watching Stan grit his teeth and swear as he snaps his hips against Rick. Stan tilts his head back and you see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows hard and that’s it, you’re there, the orgasm rolling through you as you ride it through on Rick’s tongue and you lock eyes with Stan and he comes with a groan.

As the wave fades you push Rick’s head away from you as Stan lets go of Rick’s hips, both of you pulling away as Rick makes a desperate noise and looks up at you. Stan moves to lay on the bed behind you and stretches, rubbing your hip, and you look at Rick with your face as composed as you can manage, waiting.

"Please, " Rick whispers, and you smile and push him over onto his back and brush your lips over his hip. The noise he makes when you take his cock in your mouth is desperate and relieved and his hands fasten on your shoulders as though you were saving him from drowning. He tries to buck up into your mouth but you brace both forearms across him and hold him down and he subsides with a pained whimper. 

A sleepy rumble comes from behind you and Stan's fingers are gently sliding on your clit. You push against them and he chuckles, letting you set the pace as you try to chase an orgasm without stopping sucking Rick off. 

It's a delicate balance but time spent with these two has made you adaptable and you're so wound up from your previous orgasms that it hardly takes a moment before you're coming, shuddering. You moan and the sound is echoed in Rick's throat, and then he's swearing in broken syllables as he comes, though somewhere amongst the reams of profanity you hear your name. He's bitterer than burnt coffee but you swallow anyway, licking him until he pushes you away with a grateful curse and flops over on his stomach, panting. You stretch out between them, one hand stroking Stan's chest and the other Rick's back as everyone's breathing slowly evens back to normal.

“I fuckin’ love Vegas, “ Stan mumbles, and Rick, still facedown on the mattress, gives a thumbs-up. 

Sunday morning comes all too soon; the sun’s rays creep in around the edges of the curtains and soon Stan is gently rubbing your back to wake you.

“Hey, sugar, up and at ‘em. There’s a pretty good breakfast waiting, and then Ricky and I’ll have to get on the road. After he takes you home, of course.”

You nod and lever yourself to a sitting position. True to his word there is a very nice spread of fruit and cereal and eggs and bacon and three kinds of toast and other sundries on several trays in the kitchenette, and you fill a plate and grab a mug of eye-opener and sit down next to Rick, who is shoveling eggs in his mouth like there’s no tomorrow. 

“Morning, “ he says, or at least you think that’s what it was, anyway. 

Stan has apparently already eaten as he’s packing away their discarded clothes in his suitcase. Yours are relatively neatly folded and stacked on top of your overnight bag, along with your new shoes and a t-shirt you don’t recognize. It looks big for you, but when you finish your breakfast and pack the clothes away you don’t say anything about it, tucking it in with your other things. Rick brings you a couple of fresh towels and you pack them in too. You put on your casual clothes and throw on your jacket, remembering that your apartment is not going to be as warm as Las Vegas by a long shot. 

“Well, I guess this is good-bye for now, babydoll, “ Stan says regretfully, “Got a twelve-hour drive ahead of us.”

Rick draws the gun and fires at the far wall, and the- well, not _ familiar_, but no longer unknown- green wavy tear in the fabric of reality blasts into existence. He picks up your overnight bag and gestures. 

Stan flashes a casino chip between his fingers and tucks it in your coat pocket. “There, a little souvenir.” 

He draws you in for a long, soft kiss, hands lingering on your sides as you part, yours carding through his hair.

“It’s been grand, ” he smiles, “See you ‘round, sugar.”

You smile back and nod. Rick grabs your arm and walks you through the portal and you’re back in your apartment as though the previous two days had never happened- there’s your backpack under the table, there’s the book you’d chosen from the bookshelf, there’s Rick staring disapprovingly at the rug.

He shakes his head and drops your bag and then leans down to kiss you, then chucks you under the chin. “Here’s looking at you, and whatever. I’m out.” 

He turns back through the wavy mess and is gone, the apartment silent as the portal collapses. You reach into your coat for the chip Stan gave you and your fingers encounter an extra object. You pull out a rolled bumper sticker that reads, “What is the Mystery Shack?”

Hmm. What, indeed? You bustle around your kitchenette, making yourself a hot drink to accompany your musings. Time for a little research, and then maybe a road trip of your own?


End file.
